I lay on the soft carpet, with my feet firmly crossed, watching the rain gather and spread on the window. It danced and smeared, joined and parted as it raced from the top to the bottom of the pane. When the rain picked up in intensity, it lashed against the window like the marks left on the back of Jesus as he repeatedly endured whip crack after whip lash. With each slash of rain on the window came a figment of blood on the back, pain and cries in the air. It slapped the pane so hard as if to make the pane gasp and wrestle with the blow.

Slowly, the rain stopped its staccato dance and reduced itself to a steady drumbeat, a monotonous thump on the window. It became the steady drip of blood as it traveled down His legs, gently reaching the tip of His bare feet and released itself into the air to thump on the ground below. With each gasping breath, more of His blood poured out, more of His lifeblood flowed from within to without. It traversed from the wounds in his crowned forehead, his pierced hands and his gaping side. Like the rain as it traveled down opposite ends of the window, it met on the journey down, doubled itself and moved faster to the feet and the jump into midair.

Just when I thought it could endure forever, the gently thumping sounds grew farther apart until silence reigned. But the tiny rivers continued to flow down the window pane as they washed the glassy surface gently. The rain had stopped its pouring, but the rivers continued, washing everything in their path and bringing purity once more to the glass.

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